


Family

by Artrix



Category: Castlevania (Cartoon), 悪魔城ドラキュラ | Castlevania Series
Genre: Angst, Comfort, Friendship, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-29
Updated: 2017-07-29
Packaged: 2018-12-08 10:18:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,166
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11644485
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Artrix/pseuds/Artrix
Summary: Trevor carries the weight of his family on his shoulders, but it’s rare that he can acknowledge how heavy their deaths weigh on him. Alucard and Sypha find him in a moment of weakness.They all have families to miss.





	Family

**Author's Note:**

> Based on the request, "Trevor is thinking about his family and is very depressed, so Alucard and Sypha try to comfort and help him. "

Of all places for Trevor to be reminded of his family, he did not expect it to be at the bottom step of a blood soaked stairwell in Dracula’s castle. 

Most of the castle had been through had been dimly lit, even with the multitude of candles lining the walls. Every color he’d seen had been dark and blended in with each other. Everything seemed morose and evil, and expected.

Dracula was a cold man who wanted nothing more than to spill the blood of humans and watch the world burn. 

And yet, hanging high on the wall at the top of the stairs, was a portrait of the man. Next to him, a beautiful woman whose eyes betrayed intelligence unbefitting of one who looked so young.

In her arms a tiny, pale haired baby.

The painting was beautiful and, though Trevor had to wonder who was brave enough to stand in the face of Dracula and _paint_ , he wondered if Dracula had been so intimidating at the time.

The vampire’s expression was deceptively human. He’d been painted with a strange softness, like he was truly capable of knowing what _love_ was. His hand rested gently on his wife’s shoulder and he appeared to be drawing her close. Her arms were both around the bundled infant, but he had one hand resting lightly over hers.

They looked like they must have been the perfect family except, of course, for the part where he was a fucking _vampire_.

What right did he have to smile like that? What right did he have to be _happy_ like that? They’d walked through a front yard strewn of mangled corpses, shriveled into nothing more than dried scraps of meat and bones, and that was only the beginning.

Great lawn décor, Vlad. Alucard must have loved growing up with miles of _death_ outside the front door.

A cold flame ignited in Trevor’s chest and it burned brighter and with more intensity the longer he looked at it. A portrait like that was a luxury; his family had one done when he was but a boy.

He’d hated it. It was a waste of time, he’d thought. He’d begged his mother to get him out of it, but she had insisted more than his father.

It was a privilege, she’d said.

Of course, it was, though he hadn’t quite understood it back then. A portrait like that hadn’t put too much of a dent in his family’s wealth, and it was probably less of one for Dracula. Though, who knew if he actually even had to pay; he supposed the threat on a man’s life was enough to get him to do anything.

The noble families dipped into such frivolities.

Trevor’s family at least had the decency to support their community. Dracula just graced the world with creative lawn ornaments.

The legend of the vampire had come out of nowhere, at least as far as he could tell. He had heard stories from his parents about the horrors of war, but they merely told of Dracula’s deeds, not where he’d actually _come_ from.

It was a mystery Trevor didn’t care to research. He didn’t want to get to know the monster before he killed him. He just wanted him dead and gone. It was precisely because of monsters like him that his own family had been slaughtered.

His family, humans, dedicated to fighting creatures of the night and protecting the innocents from them.

_Slaughtered_.

The time for anger was far from over, but Trevor was too tired to be angry in that moment.

Tired, and sad.

He may have been and adult, and his parents may have been prepared to die for their cause, but the Belmonts lived their lives knowing that they walked in the path of death. Any Belmont who died doing the right thing died a hero. Any Belmont who lived long enough to die an old man was lucky, but their thirst for justice and hunting creatures of the night usually earned them a youthful death.

His grandfather had died at the ripe old age of sixty eight, because he decided to hunt down a werewolf on the night of a blood moon.

Trevor had been young enough then that he hadn’t considered his grandfather getting on in age, much less how the aging process would have affected a Belmont. Slowly watching their abilities fade? Watching their bodies decay?

It wasn’t easy for anyone, but for a _Belmont_ , it signified uselessness. Each trained, devoted their life to protecting others.

How did you live with yourself when you couldn’t do what you were born to do?

So, maybe his grandfather just hadn’t wanted to die in his bed. Maybe he’d wanted to go out a hero, a legend.

And he had, of course.

Trevor idolized him even to this day.

His grandfather might not have returned from that final hunt, but when they found him, it was under the corpse of the most mangled looking werewolf he’d ever had the discomfort of seeing. Darkness had seeped so deeply into the creature’s bones, his soul, that even the light of sun couldn’t cleanse him.

He lived a monster, he died a monster.

His grandfather had lived a hero, and died a hero.

And his parents had lived as heroes, and died as victims. There was no Legacy of the Belmonts anymore. The townspeople had stricken their stories from the histories and the church pretended like they existed only as pawns of evil.

Generations of heroism, erased in a single night.

Trevor was bitter, not just because he was the only one left to carry the weight of his family, but because of the unjustness of it all.

There was a hole in his heart he didn’t think would ever patch itself up.

The grief process was something he had come to know, but it was usually one death at a time, and you had your friends, your family, to support you. To remind you that the world isn’t just a bad place filled with evil.

Trevor had no one.

He’d lost everything that night, sans the clothes on his back and a number of small belongings he’d been carrying.

He’d lost his family. His mother, his father. An Aunt. Two cousins. A sister. Two dogs.

People that could never be replaced. People who existed in no records, because the town no longer spoke stories of them and all written word had burned to a crisp along with the house. People who existed in his memory, and his heart.

He’d lost his friends, who had rejected and abandoned him the moment the church told them to. Like sheep, they had listened, blind to the fact that their shepherd was more wolf than he’d ever been.

He’d struggled since then to trust anyone; lifelong alliances and memories that had sculpted him into the man he was today meant nothing to them. They were cowards, but even that didn’t excuse them. Self-preservation meant more to them than loyalty, or even just doing the right thing.

He’d lost his pride.

Once, he had proudly introduced himself as heir to the House of Belmont. Now, he fought with himself. There was nothing _to_ be ashamed of, and yet he couldn’t bring himself to feel any ounce of pride.

Generations of heroics, and Trevor struggled to identify himself in the face of strangers. Met with coldness and reproach, being a Belmont made him more of a target amongst humans than it did monsters. He became ashamed of himself, and of everything the Belmonts had ever tried to stand for.

He’d lost his compassion, which had always been a driving factor. It was hard to put your life on the line for someone when they didn’t give a shit for you. It was hard to be willing to die for them when they were too eager to watch you die. And so, the drinking had started. It was hard to care when your thoughts were drowned in alcohol.

He’d lost the land they’d lived on, which was so much more than just the ancestral house—it was his home. It was the place he belonged, the place he felt safe. The place that spawned some of his happiest memories. He hadn’t found anywhere where he _belonged_ since then.

He was an outcast; even his name was enough to warrant spite and rejection.

And for what? What had _he_ ever done, but existed? But fought for humankind?

It didn’t matter.

A house could be rebuilt, but a home could not, so Trevor had not even tried. He had thought about it, as an act of defiance, but a few hours in the charred remains of everything he’d known sobered him to the futility of it.

They’d just burn it again, and no matter what he built, he would never have back what he’d lost.

Trevor’s eyes were on the painting, but he wasn’t really looking at it anymore. They stung, not from how long he’d kept them open or how dry the air was, but because a burning moistness begun to gather.

He was ashamed to feel anything, these days.

Most of the time his walls were high enough, strong enough, to keep everything out.

Somehow, this happy family portrait had slipped through the cracks and seeped into his very core.

It was Lisa’s expression.

Lisa, a woman he had never met, and who smiled like his mother, and who held her son with such love that Trevor _missed_ her.

He had but one small comfort from the ashes of his house and, weakened with the pang of loss, Trevor sought it out. Tucked away, in the bottom of one of the pouches at his side, was one of the few artifacts from his home—and, more than that, it was the only one he carried with him.

The canvas was burned badly on the back and the flames had licked away much of the paint on the other side. Fire had eaten away with the rest of the portrait, but he had this small piece of his history.

The fabric was pliable, weakened by the abuse of the world around it. The paint had cracked and was discolored, but Trevor treated it as though it were the most precious treasure in the world. It was folded in half twice and when he opened it, the fabric stretched a little less than half a foot in all directions.

Though scarred as it was, Trevor could easily make out himself—a child, forcing a smile but failing miserable. He was dressed in his finest and standing tall. Next to him, though, crouched by his side and with one hand on his shoulder, was his mother. Her face was pressed to his, cheek to cheek, and she smiled.

With Lisa’s smile.

His eyes darted to the wall-sized portrait of the woman to confirm, and then back to his much smaller scrap.

It must have been a motherly thing.

Her face was fading in his memory, but this little piece of fabric always brought her back to him. She wasn’t a weak woman by any means; no member of the Belmont clan was anything but effective.

But, there was a softness about her, and a love. She seemed like she was fighting back laughter, dealing with her impatient son.

Next to the two of them, on his other side, Trevor could see his father. The face was burned away, but Trevor tried to imagine it.

He could only see smoke in his mind.

Tears pooled in his eyes, and though he willed them away, his stomach didn’t stop churning.

He could prevent himself from crying, but he couldn’t prevent himself from the twisting of emotions as the pooled through his body. His throat and lungs burned like he’d been inhaling smoke and his stomach felt like he’d swallowed it.

He missed his family, more than anything.

If they were here, maybe he’d have been better. Maybe he would have gone to fight Dracula sooner, and so many people wouldn’t have suffered. 

How many had died because of his inactivity? How many innocents had he let Dracula eradicate just because he’d lost everyone?

If his mother had been here…

“She’d have been proud of you.”

Alucard’s voice pierced through the room with an eerie echo and Trevor jerked to face him, immediately alarmed. He hadn’t heard the dhampir approach but it made him sick to his stomach that he’d been so vulnerable.

“What do you know?” Trevor scowled, trying to shove away the portrait.

Sypha’s hand caught his; he hadn’t seen her approach from the other side. “Is that you?” she asked, almost incredulous.

Trevor snatched his hand away and folded the fabric up quickly.

Sypha watched him closely and added, as if amused, “You were a cute child, Belmont. What happened?”

Alucard answered for him. “He grew up.” His golden eyes had found the portrait above the stairwell, and for a moment he had eyed the baby in Lisa’s arms, and the look of love in Dracula’s face, but it was with his mother that stole his attention.

Sypha followed his gaze. “Oh,” she whispered. For a moment, she admired the portrait, but the silence was too heavy for all of them. “I cannot see either of those boys in you two.”

“Oh?” Alucard asked patiently, too polite to do anything but humor her.

Sypha crossed her arms over her chest and continued to eye the painting. “But I see your mothers in each of you.”

It caught both of their attention; Trevor looked guarded but Alucard looked hopeful.

She continued, “You have her smile. When you have a smile at all, that is,” she said, grinning at Alucard. His brows knit, but she saw him purse his lips as if he’d been thinking about trying it. Her attention shifted to Trevor. “And you have her eyes. Let me see.”

She held her hand out expectantly, and Trevor had half a mind to stomp away, but there was something in _her_ eyes that made him buckle. Reluctantly, he unfolded the portrait and handed it over.

She analyzed it with the intensity of a critic but with the love of an admirer. Her expression was strange and seemed particularly fond of the work despite its clear damage.

“Yes,” she confirmed. “Look. Alucard, come here.” She didn’t have to ask twice; he came to stand next to her. Sypha carefully traced her finger over the gentle curve of the woman’s cheekbone. “There’s a gentleness to them, when she smiles. But there’s a fierceness.”

“I’m not gentle,” Trevor muttered, but Sypha only huffed and added, “She seems like she’s keeping secrets, too.”

That seemed to catch Trevor’s attention and he snatched the painting back. “You’re one to talk, _Miss Speaker_.”

“What is that supposed to mean?” Sypha inquired, one brow arching as she planted her hands on her hips.

Trevor was agitated, only partly for being caught so sentimental. His mother was a precious memory to him and while he thought the world would be a better place if they’d known her, her memory was a private thing for him. He didn’t want to share her, not when there was so little left of her. “You Speakers all keep your secrets. Our lives are on display over here, where’s yours?”

Some unspoken emotion flashed across Sypha’s features. She looked stunned and the bluntness of his request but her expression faded quickly enough when she processed his words. “Some of us are not so fortunate as to have images of our parents,” she answered.

She spoke with the same sorrow that Trevor was trying to drive away, but Sypha didn’t hide it like he did. Sypha was not ashamed to miss them.

“How long ago did you lose them?” Alucard asked, eyes once again on the portrait of his family.

“I was young. My grandfather took me in. He has been more of a parent to me than they had the opportunity to have, I am afraid. I am grateful for him, but…”

But, she had lost her family, too. She had been younger that Trevor and Alucard both when her parents were taken from her. Though she may have had her grandfather, a void was still a void.

Trevor watched her from the corner of his eye when he asked, “How did it happen?”

Sypha shrugged and weighed the value of an honest answer in her mind before she finally settled on sharing. She reached both hands up to the folds of her robes and pushed the fabric aside as she drew out a silver necklace. “The humans were afraid of ‘witches’. A demon had attacked in the night. They blamed the speakers. Some managed to escape, but my parents were not so fortunate. I don’t have much to remember them by, but this.”

Though she kept the necklace hooked around her neck, she held the pendant affixed to it up for the two men to see. “It was my mother’s. It was my father’s engagement gift. She wore it with her always.”

She was met with silent nods.

She sighed and held the pendant delicately in her hand for a moment before tucking it away. It was hidden, but beneath her robes it fell near to her heart.

Alucard’s hands slipped into his pockets as he looked up at his mother and tried to remember that face, that smile.

Trevor snuck one last peek at the piece of the portrait he’d salvaged and carefully stroked his thumb over his mother’s cheek as he tried to imprint her into his mind.

When the paint faded, he’d have that memory, at least. Suddenly, a short laugh erupted from him. “We’re a mess.”

“Quite,” Alucard agreed forlornly.

Sypha’s eyes drifted to Alucard. “Do you carry anything of your mother’s?”

“Most of her personal belongings were lost when they took her from her home, from what I gather. The house was burned.”

Trevor cast him a glance, watching Alucard’s expression as he told this story. The familiarity weighed heavily on him but he kept his silence as Alucard continued, “There are likely some of her affects still in the castle, but I have not had access to my father’s domain since we fought. I carry only one thing of hers, but it is the most precious thing she could have given me.”

Trevor inclined his head. “And what’s that?”

Alucard had expected him to ask and politely smiled, though he didn’t look at either of the humans. “Her blood.”

The three stood in silence for a moment before Sypha drew away. “What was it like? Before all of this. What was she like?”

She moved to the wall and took a seat but she still looked up at them expectantly.

Of course, Trevor wasn’t surprised. Speakers expected stories. He’d thought she was speaking specifically to Alucard, but her eyes drifted back and forth between the two.

“What does it matter?” Trevor crossed his arms over his chest and remained planted where he stood.

Alucard didn’t move from his spot, though he did manage to pry his eyes away from the portrait again. “My mother was a wonder. She learned in a decade what took my father centuries. He used to say that she had surpassed his understanding of science. She could bring men back from the brink of death. My father didn’t understand why she didn’t simply utilize necromancy. Far easier, he said, but she was adamant on everything that she did.”

Sypha nodded and it was only because of the faint, entranced smile on her face that Alucard continued, “She was compassionate. The villagers would call her names. They would throw rocks at her. She was thoroughly ostracized. Until, of course, one of them fell sick. Then they were banging on her front door. And she always answered, and she always helped. You would have liked her, Sypha. She would have liked you.”

Alucard laughed softly at some private memory before he continued, “You are both compassionate. You tried to save Gresit when they would have condemned you. Even at the end of her life, my mother begged for mercy for her murderers. She wanted to make the world a better place. She saw the good in it when others didn’t. She wasn’t afraid to give a monster a chance. She saw beyond appearances and history.”

Sypha’s smile had sweetened some, partly at how kindly he spoke of her and partly because of the blatant love in Alucard’s voice. He admired his mother, and he missed her dearly. “You are kind.”

He shrugged but inclined his head in silent gratitude. Trevor scoffed. “But your father, he’s not exactly made your life easy.”

“No,” Alucard agreed. “But I would prefer not to speak of him.”

It wasn’t a wonder why; Dracula was the worst of Alucard, and Lisa was the best. If they were going to kill Dracula, it made sense that Alucard didn’t want to remember the good times, if there was any. Trevor wouldn’t complain; let him focus on the negatives if it meant he could draw out that rage when they confronted the vampire.

He expected Alucard to end the conversation there but was met with surprise when the dhampir’s asked, “What was it like for you, growing up?”

Trevor didn’t want to get sentimental. Alucard and Sypha had more in common than he did with either of them, at least where emotions were involved. But they were both younger than him.

Their hearts were bigger.

“Busy.”

It was an unsatisfactory answer for the two of them; Alucard’s eyes remained on him, as stoic and unfulfilled as Sypha’s were expectant and demanding.

Trevor groaned and shrugged animatedly. “I don’t know,” he grumbled, finally moving over to Sypha. He took a seat near to her, cross-legged, and propped his elbow up on a knee. “We were always doing things. Training, hunting, helping. We had a legacy to maintain. There’s not much to say. My parents were good people who did what they could for everyone they met. We Belmonts weren’t always this rough and rugged,” he gestured to himself. “We were respectable members of society. Until the Church said we weren’t.”

He forced a shrug and wouldn’t end on that note; he’d been thinking about his family all day and he couldn’t fathom why. He’d been cold to these people, who were now collected around him while they shared stories.

He didn’t know what to make of it, but he wouldn’t let the last thought on his mind be of the Church, so he forced himself to divulge a bit more. “They had good hearts. Human or animal, they cared.”

And they’d taught him to care, even if he’d forgotten for a while.

“They were strict, but effective. I haven’t a bad thing to say about them.”

Except that they were dead, but he couldn’t blame them for that.

Alucard, satisfied, nodded approvingly. 

Sypha was more visibly pleased; she smiled and tucked a few loose strands of hair behind her ear. She had gotten more than she expected from Trevor. “I don’t remember my parents much. I remember my mother smelled like flowers, and my father had a laugh that shook the house. I have heard stories of them, though.”

Stories were all that she had.

No wonder she wanted to hear theirs.

Trevor sighed and looked up at Alucard, who still stood away from the group. Their eyes met and, reluctantly, the taller man moved to sit on the ground with them. 

They were tired, in more ways than one. 

“What stories?” Alucard asked politely, and even Trevor managed to look interested.

Because, in a way, he was.

It wasn’t ever going to bring his family back, but with these two around, for a moment, he forgot about the suffocating anger, the loneliness.

He had gotten distracted with his own thoughts; Sypha had lurched into some story her grandfather had told her, eager to talk about her parents in a way that Trevor doubted he ever could. He didn’t want to open up and expose that weakness, but…

It occurred to him halfway through Sypha’s story that his companions had no reason to have been in this room. They had set up a makeshift camp in one of the adjoining rooms and they could have easily called out to him from there if they’d been concerned he was in trouble. This whole area was sealed off and there wasn’t much of a threat of monsters attacking while they took a small break.

Neither of them had needed anything. They had just sought him out.

They had come to check on him.

Trevor would never have admitted it to anyone, but the thought drew the faintest smile on his face. Not some haughty, snarky, or bitter smile.

A real one.

The family that he’d lost was irreplaceable.

But maybe this new one wasn’t so bad.

**Author's Note:**

> If anyone has sent me requests, please know that I fully intend to get to everything I’ve been sent and am working down my list! 
> 
> Thank you so much for reading!


End file.
